New York, Part 1: Halal Vivo

During my recent visit to New York, I expected to be wowed by Times Square. I imagined something apocalyptic, some Blade Runner-esque reflection of a dehumanized populace dazzled by corporate falderal.

Well, maybe it was that way, but it was more Walt Disney than Ridley Scott. Spread out over several blocks with a walking street cutting right through, it was window dressing for an outdoor shopping mall. Tickets to “Phantom,” anyone?

I had come to New York for two reasons. One, to visit my friend Kathy, who left Seattle almost three years ago. Two, to eat.

It’s no surprise that I would want to explore the international smorgasbord of New York. And honestly, few tourist attractions live up to the hype. I’ve seen enough museums and churches for a lifetime. After you’ve gotten that picture of yourself standing in front of Rockefeller Plaza, there’s this empty feeling, which you fill by forking over $30 to get into Madame Tussauds wax museum. No thanks.

So after sidestepping Radio City Music Hall and forcing down an unremarkable street vendor dog, I decided to exit Disneyland North and go where I might see actual New Yorkers: Harlem.

I wanted to see the Apollo Theater. Plus I figured I could get some soul food or some Dominican in East Harlem.

The Apollo was just a theater with a marquee. It was daytime, so there was no show, no way to enter. The stage where Ella Fitzgerald scatted and James Brown couldn’t help himself was now a venue for amateur talent shows.

But at least I got to see a clothing store called “Ballers”:

I took a bus to Spanish Harlem. Word to the wise: crosstown buses in New York are even slower than Seattle buses. It stopped at every block. I took the bus because it was raining. But as in the Emerald City, things slow down in bad weather.

When I got off, I heard some Latin jazz coming from a shop, but that’s where the festive atmosphere ended. I was expecting a more vibrant scene, like Puerto Rican Day Parade. Instead, I found gaudy birthday cakes and delis with huge chunks of fried pork skin streaming across shop windows like garland. The skins tempted me, but I needed a warm meal out of the rain.

Dinner

Dessert

I had stopped at a tourist center in Harlem to get bus information. The woman told me about a restaurant where I could get some homey Central American fare. The place she recommended, however, served huge family-sized platters with 2-liter soda bottles for way more than I wanted to spend.

Fortunately, there was Sandy Restaurant (that’s right, not Sandy’s), which had similar food without the Costco-sized portions. It called itself as Spanish & American, even though the menu was more Caribbean than Castilian, with dishes made with pigeon peas and longaniza sausage. Their signature sandwich was the “Cubano.”

I didn’t get it. Cuba ≠ Spain. I can understand “Spanish Harlem,” since many of its inhabitants speak Spanish. But food can’t speak Spanish. Someone explain Sandy Restaurant to me.

I got some stewed oxtails, rice, beans and plantains. It was filling, warm and satisfying, but it didn’t blow my mind. It was steam table fare. The mind-blowing would come a couple blocks later.

Oxtails. So underrated

After lunch, the rain had slowed, putting me in the mood to explore. I ducked down a side street that appeared mostly residential. And there it was. A blue sign depicting a rooster with the words “Halal” and “Vivo.” Thoughts fired: “Halal.” That refers to the Muslim fashion of slaughtering meat, kind of like Kosher for Islam. “Vivo.” Well, that sounds like Spanish for “alive.”

As I approached, a larger sign spelled it out: “Live Poultry.”

Finally, something memorable.

Below the sign was a storefront with one of those roll-up metal doors. Inside it looked like a cross between a bookie parlor and a chop shop, which it was, I guess. Wet concrete floors, yellow cinder-block walls and a row of battered metal cages reverberated with squawk and stench.

I walked in gingerly. A middle-aged man in a Yankees cap and women in head-scarves stood around while employees took their orders and fetched their dinners from the cages. After skulking around the illicit-seeming perimeter for several minutes, I relaxed. Nobody cared about me. I even took pictures, but I wasn’t bold enough to use the flash. They’d think I was with the health department. Or PETA.

How did I get away with this picture? I swear, no sexual favors were given

Like a bad private eye doing an obvious tail job, I sauntered through to get a look at the cages and, because I’m a curious person with bad taste in entertainment, the slaughtering.

The dark, dingy cages boasted few inhabitants, and certainly none of the Muscovy ducks, pheasants, Guinea hens, pigeons and rabbits promised on the posted price list. All I saw were chickens, squawking bloody terror as men in aprons dragged them out of their cages by their feet, sometimes two at a time.

More comedic was the weighing system. The guys hung the chickens from a single, dangling produce scale up front. The birds flapped around as they tried to get readings. It seemed like a bad system.

Toward the back, I found the death chamber through a set of those flapping plastic curtains you see at car washes. I waited for one of the men to go back there with a chicken and peered in. He lifted his victim over the sink and, with a quick, no-nonsense slice, slit its throat and hung it over the sink to drain the blood.

[Muslim Halal and Jewish Kosher practices dictate the animal must be slaughtered this way. Opponents argue this method, as opposed to a quick shot to head, is cruel. I don’t like to see animals suffer, but the conditions at the average, industrial chicken plant probably aren’t
much better. If it were up to me, I suppose I’d make sure they were stunned before slicing.]

There was also a machine inside that knocked the corpses around. I got up the courage to ask one of the employees what it did. He said it made plucking easier and asked me if I needed anything. I said no, and he ran off to take care of the next customer. No big deal.

Looking back, I should have asked them to bag me a bird so I could try one out. Talk about fresh. But I didn’t want to dirty up my host’s kitchen. We had plans to explore some New York eateries and only had a weekend to do it. More on that next post.